


Fool's Murder

by Bees_Pen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Because of the Murder Mystery, Eventual Smut, F/M, Like Deadly Slow Burn, Murder Mystery, Pre-WW2, Slow Burn, post-WW1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-07-25 20:13:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7546235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bees_Pen/pseuds/Bees_Pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1937. Sansa Stark lives a sad existence: no family, stripped of her inheritance and forced to live with the Lannisters in their stately home.  When a murder occurs just before the marriage of Joffrey Baratheon to Margaery Tyrell, it invites the mysterious Inspector Baelish into her life and all the chaos he brings.</p>
<p>Rated M for future chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi All,
> 
> This is my first fic so be kind! However I do want to improve so it would be great to get some feedback comments, including constructive criticism.
> 
> I may have been too ambitious with a murder mystery combined with a Petyr/Sansa romance piece but I thought I'd try. It may seem to be a little predictable considering what we know of the characters... but I have put some twists in.
> 
> First few chapters have to do some serious scene setting but hopefully they won't be too tedious. Again, I welcome comments!

“You think too much,” the lady’s maid proclaimed, breaking Sansa from her thoughts. 

Shae had been brushing her hair; one hundred strokes, like a princess, because she always liked to think of Sansa as one.  She had the beauty, for sure, with her rich red hair, pearly skin and ocean-blue eyes; but Sansa would never again be tricked into thinking she was owed an enchanted life.  She had believed it was her birth right once, to marry a handsome, loving man of good prospects and bear children to inherit their expansive estate.  Recent experiences, however, had proven otherwise.

Sansa met Shae’s eyes in the vanity mirror as she sat in her robe and let Shae continue to style her tresses.

“And what, pray tell, is the problem with thinking too much?” She asked, giving her a wry smile. She would entertain her outspoken lady’s maid for a little while, at least.

“Because you think about things that make you sad and it stops you from _doing_ things that can make you happy.  And you will get lines on your face from your frowning.”

“Wrinkles.”

“Wreen-kles, yes.  You are too young and beautiful for that.” Shae replied in her charming, slightly foreign accent.  Although she had asked a few times, Shae had avoided answering Sansa’s queries as to where she came from or why she had come to England to become a lady’s maid.  She suspected there was some nefarious activity involved but never thought to investigate further unless there was a reason to.

“You wouldn’t be saying all of this if I were a man.”

“That’s because most men don’t think _enough_ ,” she said, sharing a knowing look.

“Now, now.  There are some profound thinkers among them.  Lord Tyrion has some interesting thoughts,” she studied Shae for a reaction, for she long suspected something was going on between her and Tyrion, but received none.  “Nevertheless, women are no longer just meant to be beautiful.  We were made with the same powers of thought as men and we should use it. Or fighting for the vote was worthless.” 

Shae rolled her eyes as she perfected Sansa’s hair into a loose, side-parted style that let her red waves tumble over her shoulder.

“Okay, well then try thinking about good things for tonight.  Lady Margaery is coming; you like her and she will distract Joffrey so you will have nothing to worry about.”

“You’re right,” Sansa conceded.  Shae gave her a satisfied look and turned to her wardrobe to pull out a blood red evening dress, high necked and draped, a little like a Grecian toga.

“No.” Sansa said sternly, her expression losing its joviality as she realised which dress was being held up.

“But it’s beautiful and you never –”

“I don’t wear it for a reason.”

“It’s a _dress_ , it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Well it means something to me.” Her voice raised slightly in anger.  “Find something else.  Any other dress will do, I don’t care if I wear the same one as yesterday.”

Shae exhaled with frustration and turned to take out a green dress.  This one was much more to Sansa’s liking: it was a simple yet elegant design of emerald green satin, no bows or ornate beading, just a sash that fell into the long draping skirt.  Most importantly, it reminded her of her mother who always appeared in her memories wearing green dresses. Catelyn Stark would often recite the same line when they went shopping: simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.  She always hoped this dress would make her mother proud when she wore it.

Shae fussed with her hair and jewellery one last time before Sansa readied herself for the night.  She took a deep breath as she caught her reflection in the mirror and pulled on some black evening gloves.  This was her life now, getting dressed up and going to dinners where no one truly cared for her presence.

*****

Casterly Rock Manor prepared for the arrival of the Tyrells. It was a large stately home, and currently held by one of the richest and most ancient aristocratic families in England, the Lannisters. 

Tywin Lannister, the Duke of the Westerlands, had stemmed the tide of decline in these great estates by securing his family’s future.  Realising they were rich in land but low in liquid capital, he had married his daughter Cersei to Duke Robert Baratheon, an ancestral line which had been declining until they made the right investments in steel and railways in America.  His eldest son, Jamie, was a decorated WWI hero who had now earned a comfortable senior position in the military, and Tyrion joined Tywin in Parliament, although with distinctly different opinions in everything they fought for.

Robert Baratheon, it seemed, had died due to overindulgence in early 1936 and left his title, lands and thriving American business to his oldest son, Joffrey.  Now, as Duke of Storm’s End, his duty was to make an advantageous marriage to a wealthy, well-connected heiress which came in the form of Lady Margaery Tyrell, the daughter of the Marquis of Highgarden.

*****

 **_Past: early 1937_ ** _(6 months prior to present events)_

 

_Sansa ran into her room and shut the door behind her. She leaned her back against it, feeling the wood touch her skin from the top of her back to the bottom, reminding her of what had just happened downstairs.  She finally took a deep breath, rested her head against the wood and let the tears fall.  She had tried so desperately to hold them in.  When the cruelty began, she had vowed that no one in his house should see her cry; the lions would not get their claws into her._

_There was suddenly a gentle rap on the door._

_“Lady Sansa? Could I help in any way?  Ask for your dinner to be served in your room?” It was a kind voice, laden with guilt.  Tyrion Lannister._

_Tyrion had stopped Joffrey and his detested valet, Meryn Trant, from embarrass her any more that night.  He had shouted, woven through the groups of stunned dinner party guests and ordered the Duke to think about how he treated the young lady.  His fiancé._

_Sansa took a moment to steady her voice.  “Lord Tyrion you shouldn’t b-bother yourself.  I am alright, if you could just call my lady’s maid…”_

_“Please, Lady Sansa, open the door.  I would like to apologise for by nephew.”_

_“There is nothing to apologise for.  I should have known not to test his temper.”_

_There was the light patter of footsteps on the other side of the door before Shae’s voice rang through the air._

_“What are you doing up here?” She asked Tyrion, in a manner that Sansa noted to be strangely over familiar, even in her state of distress._

_To avoid an argument in the corridor, Sansa quickly called out through the door. “Shae, please, Lord Tyrion was being very kind.  Return to the dinner, My Lord, I don’t want to keep you with my troubles.”_

_There were mumbles on the other side of the heavy wooden door as Tyrion resolved to do as Sansa requested and return to his family, grudgingly._

_“He is gone, My Lady, please open the door.”_

_With that Sansa desperately swung open the door, let herself be enveloped into Shae’s arm and cried openly into her embrace in the darkened room.  Shae consoled her for a few moments and lifted Sansa’s face, letting the moonlight spill onto it to reveal a raw bruise around her eye and cheek, as well as a small cut on her forehead where she had fallen into a coffee table when Meryn Trant pushed her to the ground before he ripped her clothing on Joffrey’s orders.  Shae pursed her lips and then inspected Sansa’s red dress which had been ripped so forcefully that the slip underneath had torn as well, and she had to hold the front up to stop herself from being completely exposed.  Just hours ago Shae and Sansa had mentioned how glorious a dress it was for a Duchess-to-be._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those "scene setting" chapters I was talking about. I have to set up Sansa's story and which level of nobility all of our characters fall into.
> 
> UPDATE: I just uploaded a floor plan of the ground floor, just so you have some clue of what's going on in my messy head...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just to clarify, I've kept the real British royal family (so George VI is King) and slipped all of our characters into the noble ranks below like Duke/Duchess, Marquis/Marchioness etc. I decided against making Robert or Joffrey King because I want to use some of that real history with the World Wars etc. and those two just didn't fit as monarchs...

Seeing she was the first to grace the living room, Sansa walked through the large living room and out of the French doors that opened onto a terrace. She let the warm summer air gently caress her face as she placed a hand on the stone balustrade and looked down over the beautifully manicured garden below.

Her moment of calm was broken momentarily, by a clack sound in the house. She frowned at the disruption and then took a few steps down the stone staircase into the garden. During the day when the rectangular fountain was working, it would give a relaxing trickle sound that reminded her of the streams near her own home, Winterfell. That was the only time when she may be able to close her eyes and pretend she was there.

It was taken from her. Along with her entire family. Eddard Stark, the former Marquis of the North, had been accused of treason in early 1937 as information was found that linked him to leaked British military files that had found their way into German and Austrian hands during WWI. After being awarded several medals for his service and living in peace with his family for many years, he was suddenly thrown into prison, tried unfairly and sent to hang. It came as a shock to his friends, including Robert Baratheon, and many speculated the Lannisters, Boltons, Freys or Greyjoys were involved in bribes and fabricating that evidence in the hope of removing Ned, and taking over the estate themselves. Amongst the Northern estate was a lucrative coal reserve and closer access to known oil fields that made it the envy of struggling aristocratic families.

Once Ned was hanged, hordes of people had stormed Winterfell to trash it and murder the family of this traitor, even if it meant killing a 10 year old boy who was playing in the field with his dog. Her three brothers, sister, mother, and all the staff that had seen her through her childhood were murdered in a bloody slaughter. Sansa only survived because she had been spending time with Joffrey, her fiancé at the time, in London. She lost her entire family within a month, and had wept for her mother and siblings as they did not share her good fortune, but now she wondered if she shouldn’t have been taken with them.

The estate of the traitorous Stark family was seized by the crown, only allowing Sansa to live off the dowry that Ned had left her in his will. It was a generous amount that, at one point, had made her a formidable ‘catch’ in high society, along with her title, family reputation and renowned looks. Disgraced, stripped of her titles and forced to accept the hospitality of the Lannister family (by order of the Crown) who had broken off her engagement, she found that beauty would not get her a noble marriage. She had been reduced to indecent proposals. She would not be able to live off her dowry forever, and prepared herself for life as a governess.

*****

Sansa turned and went back inside, ignoring Lancel Lannister who had quietly come out onto the terrace to smoke. Although, he found it very hard not to cast an eye over her svelte figure as she swayed past.

On re-entering she joined Tommen and Myrcella who were standing at the doorway between the living room and the entrance hall, talking to Lord Jon Arryn. He was Robert Baratheon’s lawyer and close confidant, who had rather unceremoniously been dropped from the guest list of most social occasions after Robert died. The Lannisters were not fond of him, although Myrcella and Tommen had grown to think of him as part of the family and could hardly have him in their home without a few pleasantries. Sansa gave a cursory ‘good evening’ and a radiant smile that fooled so many into believing she was genuinely happy. He would not be invited to stay for dinner, Sansa thought, and was probably wrapping up some final business regarding the estate. After the conversation had concluded, he excused himself to the study across the entrance hall, only asking the footman to let Tywin know he was there.

Sansa quickly turned to a show cabinet, feigning interest in an attempt to avoid conversation with the others. Tommen and Myrcella were sweet enough but it was hard to forget the Lannister in them, and she couldn’t find it within herself to truly befriend them.

The cabinet she had found was large and packed with weapons, old and new: decorated swords, restored muskets, pen knives with every imaginable fixture. Joffrey had loved to boast about the collection to Sansa when she first visited the house all those years ago. He would take out the swords and swing them inelegantly, hoping to prove that he was man enough to have such a collection. She had been fairly amused at the time, now she found his theatrics repellent.

As she glanced over the contents with disdain, she noticed that one of Joffrey’s prized possessions was missing: a small hunting knife with a gold handle in the shape of a lion which had rubies for eyes. That may have explained the clank she had heard earlier; it was probably Joffrey doing what he always did and using it for inane purposes like cutting cheese, just for the sake of parading it about in front of his guests.

*****

After some time, Lady Margaery arrived in the car with her grandmother and brother in tow. Her wedding to Joffrey was in three days and promised to be the event of year, even expecting to have members of the royal family in attendance. For that reason, the Tyrells had brought an extra car’s worth of clothes, shoes, hats and jewellery to see them through their stay until the wedding and Margaery’s honeymoon.

Margaery swept into the hall in an elegant blue dress, slightly lower cut than was usually seen in England but most definitely the latest fashion in Paris. Margaery was a true Duchess. Her nature and manners were just as all the great society women should be, and there was an added intelligence that allowed her to engage anyone, from the tenant farmer to the Prince of Wales, in conversation on any given topic for at least a few minutes. Those few minutes were all she needed to charm them for a lifetime. Sansa may have envied Margaery for her abilities but, in truth, she was just as sharp and possibly better read than her. Sansa’s real failing in these conversations came from her lack of effort. Those who were bad at small talk often took no interest in it.

As she removed her shawls, Margaery warmly greeted Myrcella and Tommen with an embrace before getting to Sansa.

“Oh Sansa, you’re even more beautiful than I remember. Isn’t she Loras? Grandmother?” She pulled her into a tight embrace which Sansa could only accept gratefully, as the only gesture of warmth she had experienced for a long time.

“Very beautiful,” Loras agreed, awkwardly.

“Yes, yes, the picture of elegance,” Olenna reach up to kiss Sansa’s cheek, “But how is your mind? Restless and unused with this company, I’m sure,” the elderly lady said to Sansa, in hushed tones.

“Tyrion often tells me of the developments in Parliament, I think he finds me easier to talk to than his father or siblings; and Myrcella is a talented card player.” Sansa said, smiling genuinely at Lady Olenna’s low regard for her new extended family.

Olenna stopped Sansa just at the doorway of the living room and studied Sansa’s face more carefully than anyone had in a while. “You need more, my dear.” Sansa looked back into Olenna’s eyes, a glint of softness in a woman she had only ever known to be hard. They both broke eye contact due to the sudden outburst.

“Murder.” Announced the footman in a gruff voice of disbelief. “Murder! I say.” He shouted loudly so his voice would reach the furthest corners of the stately home.

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you think a quick sketch of a floor plan will help. I know what I'm picturing in my head but I don't know if it's coming across confusing.


	3. The Crime Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've titled this chapter just in case people want to look back at it as the story goes along.
> 
> UPDATE: I've just attached a very primitive sketch of the crime scene just to show how things are laid out in the study. I'm no great artist but it does the job!

“What?” Margaery enquired, rushing into the hallway with a perplexed face.

“Lord Arryn, he’s been stabbed.  In the study,” Sandor, the footman, said.

A few of them spilled into the study to view the scene, leaving Olenna behind as she stood aside.  She did not want to be pushed in the kerfuffle and felt she’d seen plenty of gruesome things in her life, this would hardly be worth seeing.  Tywin, Jamie and the remainder of the Lannisters had joined from upstairs by then.

Loras, Margaery, Lancel and Sansa stood in the room as they took in the sight.  Jon Arryn, Duke of the Vale, was sitting on a sofa and he appeared as one would expect a drunk Tyrion to look after a heavy night of drinking: slumped over a marble table in front of the fireplace.  His back was to the door as they entered, his hair still well coifed, his suit unwrinkled.  The only problem was the gash in the top right of his back which glistened as the freshly drawn blood caught the light.

“Is he really dead?” Myrcella cried from behind the wall of people.

Margaery stepped forward and, without disturbing the body, felt for a pulse under the man’s jaw bone for a few moments.

“He’s dead, but he’s still warm.  It can’t have happened long ago.” She mused.

“Sandor, call the doctor in case we’re mistaken.  Then call the police, tell them Lord Arryn has been murdered,” Sansa instructed the footman carefully.

Sandor nodded, looked around the room and frowned slightly at something behind Sansa before leaving to do as he was told.

*****

Petyr Baelish groaned as the shrill cry of his telephone called and woke him from his sleep.  He lay across his bed on his front in his shirt and trousers, shoes still on.  He was not drunk or hung over – Baelish rarely drank to the point of drunkenness – but he had been up through the previous night gambling in the local pub.  He had fleeced every patron for what they were worth, in every way possible from cards to darts to drinking games.  Then, he had gone straight to do some investigative work with Scotland Yard, and finally returned to his London home at 4:30 hoping to get some shut eye for the first time in 36 hours before going to inspect what was going on in his Soho nightclub, the Mockingbird.

It was 6:45 when the phone rang, 2 hours sleep was all he had got.

“Are you going to answer it or do I have to do it?” An irritated voice called from downstairs. Petyr pushed himself up from the bed and rubbed his eyes. 

“Well you are my housekeeper, Ros, it _is_ your job.” He shouted back to her as he made his way down the corridor to the stairs, and grumbled under his breath, “actually maybe she didn’t know that.”

“Well what do I know?! I was a whore before this!” She yelled from downstairs.  The telephone stopped ringing as Ros had picked it up and started talking on the phone.

Petyr made his way down the rest of the stairs quickly.  He took the phone from her and covered the mouthpiece, “Ros, I know this is new to you, so for future reference, housekeepers answer the telephone when their masters are otherwise engaged.”

His hair was messy and unstyled, shirt half untucked and braces hung by his side.  Ros gave him a look of disdain as she had never seen him so unkempt.

“I’m not sure I want to be your housekeeper for much longer if I have to look at you like this.”

Petyr scowled at her and turned away as he held the phone to his ear. 

“Baelish… yes.  Yes, Sir… About an hour.”

With that, he hung up and trudged upstairs, knowing his night’s sleep had been taken from him.  His other duties would have to wait and he sorely regretted the night at the pub.

 *****

Petyr had quickly cleaned himself up and restored his appearance to how it usually was: pristine shirt, dark green tie, pressed trousers held up by braces, and a matching charcoal suit jacket.  On top of it all he was wearing a black duster jacket.  Under his simple hat, his dark hair was sharply styled and, as he checked for strays in the mirror of his car, he frowned at the silver at his temples that betrayed his age.  He got out of the Hudson 6 and made his way to the house, spying the tattered police vehicle that meant detective sergeant Lothor Brune was already inside.

On being admitted to the house, he introduced himself as Special Investigator Petyr Baelish and was shown to the study.  No one had entered since the discovery of the body, except Doctor Pycelle to confirm the death and Brune to take forensic photos. 

Baelish took a cursory glance and walked over to a bureau chair that had been awkwardly placed in front of the window, as if someone had used it to escape.  He frowned and then went to the opposite end of the room to look at the desk, where he noted a stack of opened letters and envelopes.  He then walked over to the fireplace opposite the door, looked at the marble coffee table that the victim was slumped on. It was only at the very end that he showed any interest in the victim’s body, staring at the wound but with a look of boredom. 

“I’ll tell the household that I need to take their statements,” Petyr said as he made to leave the room.

“Don’t you want me to take any fingerprints?”

“Oh.  Well… dust the window, that chair and the table for good measure.  Fingerprints won’t tell us anything, I assure you, this place hasn’t been cleaned for a while,” he lifted an eyebrow at the dust on the bookshelf, “there will be hundreds of fingerprints but we must look to follow due process,” he mused, almost to himself.

He made his way to the living room where he had been told that the family and their guests were assembled, along with a few of their servants.  As he prepared to address them, his gaze swept the room but caught the eye of a most beautiful creature.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter but it's a first glimpse of Petyr and Sansa together.

_**Past: mid-1936** (1 year prior to present events)_

_Sansa had never been to a nightclub before but it did not match her expectations.  She thought it would look similar to a theatre, with ostentatious gilded carved wood, plush red walls, curtains and booths.  She thought there would be palm trees.  There always seemed to be palm trees when she drove past them.  She thought it would be gaudy and vulgar._

_This club, though, was anything but.  There wasn’t a drop of red in sight, save for some of the guest’s clothes and some drinks.  It was in the art deco style with black marble walls and the edge of the room had recessed booths with gold leafed walls which gave them an intimate and luxurious atmosphere.  Each booth, including their own, was complete with black art deco furniture and fine cream table cloths.   In the centre of the room was a dance floor which was surrounded by some more tables for parties of two or four, and beyond that, an impressive bar and the stage where the band played._

_The music was glorious too. Swinging jazz that was wildly different to Chopin and Schumann, which her mother had brought her up on; and a stark contrast to the operas that constantly rung through the Lannister household where she was currently staying.  The music, played by an African-American band from the Deep South, was the kind that uplifted you and took over your body.  Sansa had found herself tapping along to it without meaning to._

_Everything was wonderful in this moment, except the company.  It was the first time Sansa had seen the Lannister family together and what she had experienced of them as individuals was gone.  Cersei wasn’t kind as she usually was to Sansa, but icy in her demeanour.  Tyrion wasn’t jovial but rather drunk instead.  And Joffrey’s charm was replaced with a pompous desire to look important in this club.  Tywin and Jamie paid her no mind usually but their silent indifference was unnerving.  To break the tension Sansa reached over and took one of Joffrey’s hands and squeezed it lightly to show how much she appreciated the night._

_“I’m not sure I can swing or lindy-hop, but when a slow piece comes on would you care to dance with me? A waltz or a foxtrot.” She gave Joffrey a shy smile. Joffrey hesitated for a moment and then nodded.  Cersei smiled at the display but it was still cold._

_*****_

_Petyr Baelish had taken a round of his club to make sure all was well, and now leaned against one of the black marbled walls smoking.  He scanned the room once again and made a double take.  He caught the fiery red tresses of woman seated in one of the gold leafed booths, and it made the light shimmer around her.  Petyr caught himself before he became silly and called her an angel.  He did not really prescribe to any religion but he knew that no Gods, old or new, would let a man like him anywhere near an angel.  If anything, she was a ghost of that girl he loved long ago, come back to haunt him._

_She was wearing a high neck, silvery-blue satin dress with subtle beading on the bodice.  Her red hair – her Tully hair – was knotted into a bun with a few loose tendrils framing her face and delicate bone structure, and fully revealed her slender, sleeveless arms.  It was a demure look.  Almost too pure and safe for this club considering the skimpy flapper dresses of some of his other guests.  At least that was what he thought, until she leaned further forward on the table, arching her back a little, and revealed the deep-plunging V at the back of her dress that exposed her entire spine almost until her tail bone._

_He was lost in her._

_“Boss?”  And with that, his moment was gone.  “One of my regulars wants to start early.  Do you mind if I stop serving and take him up?”  Petyr blinked hard to break out of his trance and then turned to look at Ros with her surly face._

_“Yes, Ros, you can.  But make him wait a while.  Say you need to find a replacement, get a few drinks out of him and then take him up.”_

_“Of course,” she said, with no effort to hide her bitter tone._

_“Hey, hey,” he said, gently pulling her back by her shoulder, “I can’t have you acting like this.  What’s wrong? Is Olyvar flirting with that drummer-boy you both like?” He smirked._

_“I want out, Petyr, I told you.”_

_“Tsk, Ros…” he scowled, “Not this again.  You’ve got a good deal here.  A place to stay, good pay – the best in town for this work – I believe.”_

_“I’m twenty four and I can’t do this my whole life.  Maybe I could leave…work in a restaurant or become a housekeeper”_

_“A housekeeper?” He raised an eyebrow, “Who would give you a job like that without any experience? Besides, I’ve seen many ladies in and out of this industry, you’ve got a few years left to give,” he replied, his attention was suddenly drawn back to the red-head who had stood up and lead her young male beau (Joffrey Baratheon he noticed, once his eyes had finally left her) to the dance floor for a slower song._

_“I have a few years left but I don’t want to stay, especially when all I **do** is old fogies.  All the young, handsome ones want exotic – one of your girls from China or the West Indies – so that he can indulge in something new and then go back to his English Rose debutante.” She had followed Baelish’s eye to the couple.  They made for an attractive pair.  Most would admit Joffrey to be classically good looking with his blonde hair and green eyes._

_The boy was struggling to lead his fair red-head in a waltz, and despite it looking like he was stepping on her toes, she still maintained an air of grace._

_“You don’t want that Baratheon boy,” Petyr stated, “he’s a terrible dancer, and terrible dancers are usually just as bad in bed.” Petyr smirked, beginning to imagine what it would be like touch the young redhead’s skin and trail kisses up her back and to her neck._

_“Mm, you’re probably right.” She paused.  “ **She** , on the other hand, is a wonderful dancer,” Ros said, turning to Petyr to see his reaction._

_Baelish met her with a look of derision, although it wasn’t clear whether it was for Ros or really for himself, being caught fawning over this woman._

_“Please extend my sincere regards to Bronn,” he said walking away from Ros.  He then paused and turned back to her, “and be careful what you wish for, that dull housekeeper picture may become a reality one day.”_

_*****_

_Their “romantic” dance lasted just two minutes.  That was enough for Joffrey’s ego to be bruised as he fumbled around and found himself upstaged by his proficient partner.  He had then pulled Sansa back to their table, complaining that the dancefloor was too slippery, and thrown a hissy fit when an attractive young man had asked her to dance._

_As social events go, the night was already failing as everyone smoked cigarette after cigarette to fill the void in conversation.  The Lannisters, Sansa had found, seemed so stilted by things they couldn’t say to each other that it stopped them having any conversations as a family that didn’t descend into arguments._

_With nothing else to entertain her, Sansa also took out her silver case and loaded a cigarette onto her holder.  She then went to look for her own lighter in her purse, but was quickly met by the zip and flame of a stranger’s lighter being offered up to her.  She bent to light the cigarette, noticing how sophisticated the lighter was. A slim, black lacquer and gold design with a small gold bird etched into the black._

_The fingers holding it looked like they belonged to a pianist and, after her cigarette was lit, Sansa followed the arm with her blue eyes to meet green and grey.  This man’s eyes were all she saw for some time.  They were arresting, stalling her mind and causing her rosy lips to part subconsciously so that her cigarette holder fell away from her mouth._

_Slowly, everything around his eyes started to come into focus.  A handsome face, an older man but not old, dark hair with silver streaks at his temples, and a mischievous smirk that gave the impression that this man’s thoughts were never pure. He was oddly attractive, in fact. She felt her face flush under his gaze and hoped that the ambient lighting would hide it._

_“I believe a congratulations are in order, Your Grace, My Lady,” he said, tucking the lighter back in his inside pocket and acknowledging the large and flashy engagement ring on Sansa’s left hand.  His voice was sumptuous yet controlled, sending a prickle along Sansa’s skin but she couldn’t tell if it was a pleasant feeling or not._

_Baelish was greeted by nods from the table but he paid little attention to anyone except the young woman beside him.  Sometimes beauty didn’t stand up well to intense scrutiny, but seeing her at such close quarters only made her seem more exquisite, especially with her blush. He hoped it was because of him._

_“Ah, Sansa, let me introduce you to Lord Baelish my… acquaintance and the owner of this fine establishment.” Tyrion explained, crossing his short legs.  Sansa was struggling for words, especially since Petyr Baelish kept throwing her glances that made her feel bare to his eyes.  She could only muster a gentle smile and nod of acknowledgement._

_“Acquaintance?” He smirked, “Is that what I am?”_

_Cersei rolled her eyes at the conversation and brought it back to what mattered. “Lord Baelish, we are celebrating Joffrey’s engagement to Sansa, Lord Stark’s –“_

_“– And Catelyn Stark’s,” Tyrion chimed.  Cersei and Petyr both gave him a stern look, although for different reasons._

_“Lord and Lady Stark’s eldest daughter,” she continued.  Her mouth curled into a cold smile.  “It was Tyrion’s idea to bring us to your club.  I see it’s quite popular but I can’t fathom why he thought **we** would be interested in such a place.”_

_“You know I live to please you, dear sister, but this wasn’t so much for you.  I thought the young ones would enjoy being young for once.” Cersei pursed her lips in irritation._

_Tywin rose from his seat. “A touching idea, but I suggest we move on to The Criterion for our real dinner.” He had grown tired at the stalemate and saw the conversation about to descend into bickering. As he raised himself from the table the others followed except Tyrion.  He then made his way to the exit and bid farewell to Baelish as Joffrey, Jamie, Cersei and Sansa followed him out._

_Petyr watched the back of Sansa as she left, now with a shawl to cover her back, but still a divine figure.  He was surprised when she stopped and turned back, directing her blue eyes into his._

_“It was a pleasure to see your beautiful club, Lord Baelish. And to meet you.” The second part came after a moment of self doubt from her.  She extended her gloved arm to shake his._

_“Likewise, Lady Stark,” he said, taking her hand and kissing the back of it, all the while staring into her blue orbs.  Her glove smelled like citrus fruits, no trace of tobacco even though she had been smoking. Sansa let out a whisper of a breath that she hadn’t realised she had been holding. As she left, Petyr didn’t see her glance back to appreciate his lean form in its entirety._

_Tyrion finally got up to join them, his meaningless protest over._

_“Quite something, isn’t she?  I fear, far too precious for my brutish nephew,” he said, drunkenly skirting around the chairs that were almost his height, “she should be with someone kind and honourable, like her father.”_

_“I don’t know about that.  But she deserves to be with someone who wouldn’t smother the fire in her.”_

_Tyrion contemplated taking that comment further but then decided against.  “Keep my tab open,” he said, “I’ll be back after this tedious affair.”_

* * *

Just to let you know that the inspiration for Petyr's club decor is The Savoy champagne bar but then imagine a dancefloor and well-lit stage for the band.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love hearing your comments about how this is all going!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so we get to the testimonies. I won't do each character so no worries but footman Sandor (aka. The Hound) has important stuff to say!

Lady Sansa Stark.

Petyr had thought of her many times since he had met her at his club last year, especially in light of the news of her family.  His only solace when he heard of the news surrounding Catelyn and her family’s death was that Sansa had lived.  He wondered what had happened to her engagement, how she was living now, and then felt relieved when he saw the society news about Joffrey and Margaery.

Of course, he had thought of her in other ways as well.  He thought about her dancing.  He thought of her staring into his eyes as he kissed her hand.  And that dress.  Or rather, how he would get her out of that dress.  And when he took his own pleasure, alone at night, he imagined how it would feel to let her have her way with him.

The images he had of her in his mind had started to fade since it have been so long, but here she was in front of him, leaning against the grand piano with a green dress that contrasted her fiery hair and porcelain skin.  His memory had not done her justice.

Petyr collected himself just as he realised that he may have been staring into her eyes for an awkward moment too long.  He was annoying himself with his own behaviour.  She _had_ met his gaze, though; and he was the one who broke it, not her.

“I’m afraid,” Baelish announced, “this may be a long night for you all, I will have to take some initial statements and alibis to prevent the chance of collusion.”

“Will we be getting _any_ food or sleep tonight?” Lady Olenna snapped.

“Lothor and I will endeavour to make this as painless as possible.  Please, feel free to continue with your evening but there will have to be police officers on watch.”  She snapped his eyes onto Sansa for a moment, “I apologise for the inconvenience.”

Olenna was not particularly placated with this but she stayed quiet.  Baelish and Lothor were instructed to take their interviews in the morning room and library while the rest of the household tried to come to terms with what had happened.  They had also found that the estate had not been breached, so the killer was certainly amongst them.

*****

What Petyr Baelish knew of Dr. Pycelle he detested.  He was lazy, self important, and a sycophant when it came to the Lannisters.  Baelish had done many things to stay in their good graces to serve his own purposes but never in the sickening, complimentary fashion that Pycelle did. 

He sat down with the doctor in the morning room which, in the darkness of the night was now dimly lit with lamps. Petyr knew Pycelle would not tell him anything he didn’t already know.  The temperature of Jon Arryn’s corpse indicated he was killed sometime between 6 and 7, making the estimated time of death of 6:30 entirely plausible.

He was killed with one stab wound by a smooth edged weapon.

“The wound makes it seem like it wasn’t the sharpest of blades,” Petyr added in a bored tone, annoyed that he was doing Pycelle’s job for him.

“Yes, it wasn’t as clean as a sharp pointed weapon should be.”

Petyr asked if there was anything to add, knowing there wouldn’t be, and then ushered him out. He knew Pycelle would be keen to get back to the arms of some whore tonight, most likely a trashy East-End of London type that sagged due to overuse and had tarty, almost clownish make-up.  The obvious whore rather than the more refined type Baelish offered.

 *****

As Petyr saw to the members of the Tyrell family, Lothor had found that all the staff had been eating dinner together downstairs, except for two: Sandor Clegane and Meryn Trant.   The servants had sat at 6 so they could eat before they were due to attend to the family and their guests upstairs.  No one had left the table until the cry of murder at 6:35. 

The two servants who were upstairs were the footman, Sandor Clegane, who was to take care of the family while the other servants ate, and Joffrey’s valet Meryn Trant was dressing him in his room.  It could only have been someone who was upstairs at the time of the murder.

Further interviews revealed nothing obviously suspicious.  Tyrion and Jamie had been playing darts and drinking, while Tywin and Cersei had congregated in Joffrey’s room to discuss wedding guests as he was dressed by Trant. 

 *****

Petyr next proposed to talk to the footman, Sandor Clegane.  In his experience servants were normally the most aware of with the goings on in a house.  They were often forgotten in the shadows yet it was precisely their job to keep an eye on everything and everyone.

“Mr. Clegane, please sit.” Petyr knew this moment would be key for determining what kind of man Sandor was.  If he hesitated or refused to sit then it told Baelish that he was either loyal or scared of the Lannisters, and the information he would give may be tainted.  If he sat without question then it would be clear he was just doing the job to live.  Concerns for the Lannisters would not affect his testimony.  Baelish wasn't the kind to let loyalty cloud his judgement but he recognised that other people might let it.

“Thank you, My Lord.” He grumbled and sat down immediately.

“Please, call me inspector.” Petyr smirked with satisfaction whilst lighting a cigarette.  He could trust Clegane’s testimony, it seemed.

Sandor Clegane went on to describe his night.  He had eaten dinner early, at 5, knowing he would have to report upstairs at 5:30.  When he went up, no one was there until Sansa came down and went straight outside.  Then he had seen to Tommen, Myrcella and Lancel in the living room, fetching them all refreshments before Lancel had taken his to the terrace for a smoke.

“Lord Arryn came just after 6 o’clock.  He talked to Master Tommen and Lady Myrcella for some time.  Mr. Lancel Lannister waved from the terrace but did not come to meet him, and then Ms. Stark joined.” Petyr subconsciously took a deep breath at the mention of Sansa.

“And then he went to the study?”

Clegane nodded and then said that he had summoned the Duke, Tywin, as Lord Arryn had asked.  He had left them to their business.

“Could you hear them talking?” To this question, Sandor raised an eyebrow.  Petyr met him with an unreadable face.  “I’m not accusing you of eavesdropping. I just want to know your impression of their relations.”

Both knew what he was asking: was there anything about the conversation that may indicate Tywin was behind the murder?  Stern words? Long periods of silence when the murder could have happened?  Maybe mention of something Tywin didn’t like?

“They talked the whole time, sir, but I couldn’t say what it was about.  Nothing seemed suspicious.”

“And when did the Tywin... the Duke leave?”

“6:15, sir.  The Duke left and went back upstairs.”

“Did you see Lord Arryn when the door was opened?”

“Yes.  He turned back and said he needed to write a few letters before he left.”

“And what was the Duke’s demeanour?”

“Couldn’t say.  He always looks a little pissed, doesn’t he?” Petyr had to appreciate the truth in that.

They talked for a few moments about the Tyrells’ arrival, when Sandor had opened the door for them and helped them out.  They had discussed where the suitcases would need to go when they were taken up to their rooms later than night.

“And when did you find the body?”

“Around 6:30.  I know I made the phone call at 6:32 according to the hall clock.”

“Why did you go into the room in the first place?”

“The Tyrells were there and I knew dinner would start soon.  Lady Cersei would want me to–”

“– give a gentle reminder that Lord Arryn was not wanted?  I understand.” Petyr finished nodding.  Cersei knew how to be inhospitable, for sure. 

“Right.  I just opened the door and he was slumped over with a bloody gash in his back.”

Petyr mused and studied him carefully.  He liked to leave heavy silence during these interviews because it sometimes drew out more.  People always had a need to fill long periods of silence in conversation, even if they weren’t awfully talkative.

“The chair and the window.” Sandor finally broke.

“Yes, I’m glad you noticed that too.  Footmen see these things where others don’t.”

“I don’t think it was like that, against the window, when I first saw him.”

“You don’t think?” Petyr questioned calmly.

“I was mostly looking at the dead man.  But nothing about the room seemed off when I gave it a quick first glance.  Then everyone came to the study.  When I was called back by Ms. Stark to make the call to the police I saw it and thought it was odd.”

“So someone moved it after you found the body?”

Clegane shrugged. “They could have escaped.”

“Oh, I assure you it wasn’t an escape route.  The window was locked and it can only be opened and closed from the inside.  Someone may have _tried_ to escape, or at least make it look like they had.”  He puffed his second cigarette, “Can you be sure you were alone?”

“I –”

“No, I think is the correct answer.”  Petyr fixed his gaze and stared at nothing in particular. “Who were the first people to meet you at the scene?”

“Well, Lady Margaery, Sir Loras... Miss Stark and Mr. Lancel Lannister.  Master Tommen and Lady Myrcella were there too but they didn’t go into the room.”

“Thank you for your time Mr. Clegane, it was very helpful.” Petyr got up and saw him out.

When Sandor had left the room, Baelish looked at the list of people still to question: Tywin and Sansa.  He had subconsciously put the ones he would find hardest until the end.  But he would have to choose one now.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we get some idea of who Petyr Baelish is in this world, all with Olenna's acerbic tongue.

Baelish had been sitting back in an arm chair and thinking of the strange puzzle that was forming when the Duke of the Westerlands was announced into the room by Sandor Clegane.  He rose to his feet and nodded as part of the cursory gestures he had to give him.

“Alright, Lord Baelish, let’s get this over and done with.”  Tywin sat in one of the armchairs and gestured for Petyr to sit.

“Thank you, Your Grace.  It won’t take much time.”

“I hope not,” he said, “I have a wedding to cancel and just two days.”

“Of course.  Well I already know you were with Joffrey and Cersei before you met with Lord Arryn.  What time was that?”

“That’s right.  Sandor brought me down at around 6 and I stayed there until about 6:15 before going back up to Joffrey’s room.”

“And may I ask what you discussed?”

“An exchange of some crops and firewood between the Westerlands and the Vale.  Some matters about Joffrey and his Storm's End estate.  Standard affairs.”

“For the sake of the investigation, I should ask for more details about their affairs, Your Grace.  It’s likely I would have to look into them anyway.”

“Doesn’t client-lawyer confidentiality protect me from this?” Tywin asked coldly.

Baelish pursed his lips, “Lord Arryn is lawyer to the Baratheons, not the Lannisters.  If I may say, it wouldn’t extend to your discussion with him, although you may still refuse to answer me if you would like.  This is voluntary.”

“It doesn’t feel voluntary,” he shot Petyr a look and then conceded, “But I don’t want you thinking I killed Jon Arryn.”

Petyr gave nothing away as Tywin got up to pull out a cigar from the desk to smoke.

“Robert had a lot of bastards, as I’m sure you know.  It seems he had the bright idea of leaving them some money in his will and Arryn was telling me the latest of his investigations into all of them.  Funny how Robert is trying to buy off his sins when he’s dead.  He hardly thought of them when he was alive,” he scoffed into his drink.  “It’s chipping away at my grandson’s estate.  And as if that isn’t bad enough his uncles, Stannis and Renly, are unhappy with their residences.”

“I suppose you voiced these issues with Lord Arryn?”

“Yes, I told him to do as he saw fit with the investigations, and to tell Stannis and Renly to appreciate the generosity the Duke has shown them.  They are trying to bleed Joffrey dry and I won’t have it.”

“Lady Margaery and the Tyrells will bring a lot of wealth to the Duke’s estate, and I believe the American business is still doing well.”

“Yes, I suppose.  And thank you for introducing Margaery to us.  I never did say it but we thought it would be hard to find someone as wealthy and well connected after we broke off with the Stark girl.  I was beginning to look to America.”

A long silence fell between them before Petyr saw him to the door.

“Oh, Your Grace,” he caught him before he left, “Was there a chair by the window when you left the study?”

“A chair?  No, Baelish.  Not that I saw.”  With that, he exited the room.

*****

Sansa fiddled with clasp of her purse as they all sat in relative silence in the living room.  Ideally they would have played music or cards after dinner but that seemed like poor taste after the events of today.  Of course no one cried for Lord Arryn, no one here knew him well enough.  It was at that point that Sansa realised no one would really shed a tear if she died either.

“…I know, I just didn’t realise he still did this kind of work.  I thought he just spent time keeping his club and being a Lord.” Sansa’s ears pricked at the mention of the mysterious inspector that Lady Margaery was talking about to her grandmother.

“No one will ever know what sort of things Littlefinger is truly up to. I doubt he even sleeps with all that scheming,” Olenna remarked.  Sansa frowned at the peculiar nickname.

“Grandmother!” Margaery cried, laughing a little as she glanced round the room at the police presence, “we should call him Lord Baelish.  And we shouldn’t prejudice people like Sansa against him before they’ve even met him.”

“Oh, I’ve met him.  Briefly, at his club.” Sansa corrected, and thought of how her stomach had clenched inexplicably when he had kissed the back of her hand.

“Mm, The Mockingbird. Loras and I like to go there often. It’s glorious, isn’t it?” Margaery said, smiling.

“Very much so. And I loved the music but, you’re right, it seems odd that he spends his time on police work.  I can’t see how a Lord, club owner club and inspector go together.”

“I suspect it has something to do with his work during the war,” Lady Olenna interjected. “He was one of the best military intelligence gatherers, apparently, although I’m not sure about his methods.  He got dirt on everyone, whether they were allies or not.”

“What do you mean by ‘his methods’?” Sansa enquired.

“Well he employed those from the oldest profession.”

Sansa frowned quizzically.

“Prostitutes, my dear.” Lady Olenna was clearly not put off by the policemen who were watching the family.  She and Littlefinger were acquainted, enough to understand each other’s character and for him to pay no mind if he ever heard of her insults.

“My goodness,” Sansa said, taken aback.  She cursed herself in her mind for needing it to be spelt out.

“Yes, employed all over the continent, I hear.  Time and effort poured into creating those secret codes and strategies, and it all comes undone with the spread of a woman’s leg and some pillow talk.” Olenna snorted in derision, “and they say we women should be left at home.”

The three women paused to reflect for a moment.

“But how did he become a Lord?” Sansa wondered.  Regardless of his services to the country, a man dealing with prostitutes was a most unlikely nobleman.

 “Oh, he’s always been a lord.  A minor lord, but a lord all the same. His late father was some Baron that everyone forgot about – not very wealthy or connected.  But Baelish was vested with his new title and lands just last year, the Marquis of Harrenhall.” Lady Olenna informed.

“Yes, he was one of the last King’s, Edward VIII, first appointments when he ascended the throne.  He must care for him very much.” Lady Margaery commented.

“Well King Edward achieved very little else before he abdicated for that Wallis Simpson.  If there ever was a King to make a Marquis out a whore-monger then it would have been him. I expect Lord Baelish probably facilitated his parties and other scandalous activities.”

“Service to his country indeed,” Sansa quipped and it delighted Olenna very much.

 *****

The conversation was interrupted by the return of Lothor Brune, looking to conduct one of the last interviews.

“Miss, er, or Lady Stark?  Would you come with me to the library?” Brune called.  Just as Sansa got up, Baelish entered. 

“It’s alright Lothor, I will see to Lady Stark.  You can go home for the night, we have much work tomorrow.” He gave Lothor a well-meaning smile as he left and his eyes darting to Sansa. 

It was hard to read his smoky green eyes.  The way he had said he would see to her made her wonder if she was in for a fiercer interrogation than Brune would have given.  Maybe he’d found something?  However, as he directed her to the morning room, she didn’t feel any threat from this man.  She felt his eyes behind her as she walked, trailing her body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've sort of fudged the timeline enough to make Petyr and Sansa's ages are okay here. I'm suggesting Petyr enlisted and caught the end of WW1 (perhaps 20 when it ended) so he'd be around 39 now. I'm thinking Sansa is about 19/20. I know that means born during the war but would a Marquis really be on the frontline all the time? He could come home for visits.
> 
> Oh, and just a reminder that Edward VIII was the current Queen's uncle and he enjoyed a lot of ladies and parties. It was quite embarrassing for the British PM and hopefully people know about Wallis Simpson, his twice divorced partner that he eventually decided to marry and give up the throne for. Doesn't he sound like someone who would love Littlefinger and his clubs? And want to give him some titles to reward him for all the good times?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little longer than the others but it didn't make sense to split it up. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> I also forgot a piece in Chap.1 when I was copying everything over, I've now put it in but it explains that Tywin and Joffrey are Dukes (in case it isn't clear elsewhere). Dukes and Duchesses are addressed as just "Duke/ Duchess" or "Your Grace" as opposed to just Lord X/Lady Y etc.

“Please take a seat, Lady Stark,” he said.  She felt the ghost of a touch on the small of her back as he directed her towards one of the arm chairs.  It was enough for her to feel a warming tingle along her spine.

“Thank you, Lord Baelish,” she said sitting down, “but I go by Miss Stark now.  My… situation has changed rather a lot since we last met.”

She left it brief as everyone knew about it.  News of her traitor father and the Stark family butchery had been plastered across papers for a solid month and was a constant topic of conversation.  It was also obvious that her situation was dire by the marked absence of that ghastly ring on her finger and her forced presence in the Lannister house.  She was thankful that all he did was give her a courteous nod rather than try to go into it with sympathies or insults.

“Then you should call me Inspector.  Or Mr. Baelish.  Petyr, if you like,” he smirked, “I’m not really here as a Lord.”

“Very well, inspector.” She smiled, relaxing back a little and crossing her legs, “Ask me the questions you’re here to ask, I have no secrets.”

He studied her whole image in that moment. “I hardly believe that,” he said wistfully, almost to himself, before he leaned forward and proceeded with business.  “I think you should start with telling me what you did tonight, from around 5pm up until the murder.”

Sansa drew in a deep breath and sat up straighter so as not to be lulled into a false sense of security by this inspector’s lyrical voice and cool composure.  She could not forget that she was a possible suspect in a murder inquiry.  The people in this house were very capable of twisting everything, and she could start to appear guilty if she allowed herself to grow complacent. 

“Well, my lady’s maid helped me get cleaned and dressed.  I came down around quarter to six – but I’m not sure of the exact time – then I went straight out onto the terrace.  I came in just after 6, greeted Lord Arryn and then I was in the living room when the Tyrells came.”

“Were you alone on the terrace?”

“I saw Lancel was there when I came back in.  But yes, otherwise I was on my own.” She waited for him to proceed but Baelish just wrote his notes. She felt it was his intention to unnerve her with silence and she wanted to stand firm but could not help divulging more.  “I like to get away and be alone with my thoughts before dinner.  Even in such a big house it can be hard to find a place where there isn’t a servant, or I’m not being asked to sit in on Myrcella’s piano lessons…or listen to Joffrey.  That time – when everyone upstairs is getting ready and everyone downstairs is eating – I get total solitude. And it’s beautiful out there in the garden.” As she said that, she turned her gaze to the window to see the vast plot. 

Baelish’s eyes had not followed hers out the window.  She felt them, focused on her the entire time.  Studying her with a glare that was both intimidating and comforting. There was a long pause before the inspector continued.

“And how well did you know Lord Arryn?” 

She turned back to him. “Not well.  Although, now it occurs to me that I should have tried harder.  He was my uncle afterall, through marriage.”

“Yes, your Aunt Lysa, the Marchioness of the Vale.”  Sansa could sense a mild distaste in the way Baelish said it but she did not want to pry. 

“I had never met him before I came here.  My aunt, I was told, has… a very delicate constitution and it made it hard for our families to meet.  To be truthful, I never got the impression she really cared for my mother either.  And then after everything with my father –”

“ – You felt unwelcome in their home.”

Sansa nodded. “I don’t blame her, though.  Or Lord Arryn, for that matter.  Even Uncle Edmure who cared deeply for my mother had to distance himself.  He could do little to defend us, really.  He has a good position in the army and Lord Arryn is also prominent in the legal field.  To be so closely linked to my family’s shame would not have been good for either of them.”

Sansa stopped talking and watched the inspector as he flipped through his notepad.  As he asked a few other questions, she noticed the way the dim lamp light hit his face, flaunting his chiselled features and dancing around the trim of his moustache.  His hand flexed over the pages, twirling his pen between the fingers of his writing hand.  He was distinguished; and only when she met him did she finally appreciate what that meant.  It was not about titles, being flamboyant or intimidating others; it was Petyr Baelish’s understated confidence, intelligence and charisma that was beginning to charm her.

He had made her feel safe, and she had an bizarre desire to be useful to him, so every simple question he asked she met with a lengthy reply.  Now, she realised that was possibly a foolish thing. He had not written much of what she said down (she could tell the notepad was more of a prop to him anyway) and it was not that she had incriminated herself in any way, but she was revealing too much of her character – her weaknesses – to this man she hardly knew and to a man that could have any reason to incriminate her. 

True, he had given her no reason to doubt him yet, and he had shown some interest in her.  When he had first walked into the living room their eyes had locked on each other, although that was as much her as him.  Even now as he spoke to her his eyes would darken.  She had seen enough of men to know what lust looked like.  But then again, maybe these were just tricks.  She had heard of policemen who pretended to be friends with suspects and others who intimidated them, so how absurd would it be to use seduction?  Petyr Baelish, himself, had used prostitutes to seduce military intelligence out of men during the war. 

She would not allow herself to fall into a trap.  She had fallen from grace quite a bit over the last few months but she knew she could fall even further.  ‘Murderer’ was not a label that she would like to bear. Perhaps she would have to set some traps herself. 

“Lady Stark?” Baelish called.  Sansa snapped out of her thoughts and saw his face had momentarily lost its composure in exchange for a look of concern. He seemed to have asked a question but she hadn't caught it.

“Sorry, I don’t know what happened,” she blushed, as she realised he’d probably caught her staring at him as he wrote.

“It’s quite alright, it has been a long night.” He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.  “I was just asking whether you remembered the order in which everyone entered the study after the call of murder.”

“I – Well Lady Margaery was the first to move out of the living room to talk to Sandor.  She walked past me and her grandmother.” She thought hard, “but then Loras followed and I – I don’t know who the first person to actually _enter_ the study was.  It was a haze but I think Lancel and Margaery may have gone in before me, and Loras after.” 

He flipped the pages of his notebook again.

“I’m sorry, that was very unhelpful from me.” Sansa said to fill the silence.  She irritated herself again for falling for the silence trick again.

“Not to worry, Lady Stark, no one seems to remember it clearly.  Shock tends to do that to people,” he said matter-of-factly. “Lady Olenna doesn’t remember Lancel running past, and Margaery didn’t even know Loras was with her in the room.”

They let the words hang in the air for a few seconds before she got up from her armchair with alarming purpose.

“What about the weapon?” She made her way to the desk of the morning room.

*****

Petyr was visibly taken aback at her sudden surge.  Some, like Tywin Lannister, tended to saunter around during these interviews because they treated them like a social call – police didn’t intimidate them.  Or maybe all of their social calls were just as stiff, he didn't know.  Most, however, rarely stand or walk about, let alone start a line of inquisition of their own. 

“The weapon?  We are still looking for it.” His sceptical eyes followed her to the writing desk that overlooked the garden.

“There is a cabinet of knives and such in the living room, and I heard a sound when I was out on the terrace.  Like someone closing a cupboard door or drawer.”  She bent down to pull out a bottle of whiskey and some glasses, and started to pour.  It was bizarre to have hard liquor in a room intended for morning use, but Petyr didn’t put it past Cersei to require it at that time and keep secret stashes around the house.  It was most interesting that Sansa knew where it was, though.

He didn’t really know what to think, about her questions, her sudden change in confidence, the drinking.  But she was enthralling, that was for sure.  

“Yes, I noticed that cabinet… my men will have to check things against the house inventory.”

“I already know what’s missing.  A hunting knife.” She turned back and held out a glass of whiskey for him.

He had already let her ask too much and claim too much control over the conversation, but there was something in the way she looked at him – her blue eyes flickering between his lips and eyes – that made him wonder what was going on.  He wished he could say he was following a plan, but really he was succumbing to her.

He got up slowly and took his time striding the short distance between them, holding her gaze the whole way.  When he finally stopped, their faces were just inches apart.

“Thank you,”  He said as he took the glass. His fingers gently stroked hers, soft and silky, and they both lingered on the glass longer than they should.  She finally let go and picked up her own glass, sipping it as she leaned against the table, her back to the garden that usually fascinated her.

“I know, it sounds awfully convenient of me to mention that sound now.”  Her voice had lowered to little more than a whisper.

“It’s not that…” He spoke in low tones to match her, his minty breath and cologne filling the air between them, “A hunting knife you say?”

She nodded.

“Smooth edged or serrated?”

Her azure eyes flicked to the side in thought and then looked back deeply into his, “serrated.”

He shook his head slowly, “our weapon was smooth edged.”

Sansa bowed her head into her drink a little, as if to concede.

“Try again,” he smirked.

She glanced up with unsure surprise.  A long pause to ruminate and then, “how about a letter opener?”

He sipped his drink and then gave her teasing frown.

“You know there’s a letter opener.” She smirked.  She said it as a fact, reading him and matching his play.

“Do I?”

She placed a hand on the desk behind her and leaned back on it a little so the moon caught her lean silhouette.  “Your policeman friend only took one photo of the corpse, but he took about ten of the stack of open envelopes and letters on the desk which had no relation to the victim.” She sipped her drink. “Except, maybe, that they were all sliced open by the same implement, which is now missing.”

Petyr chuckled at the cruel joke and Sansa’s eyes sparkled with life.

“You shouldn’t have been watching us work,” He challenged smugly.  “But, alright Lady Stark, tell me about this letter opener.” 

“It’s made entirely of ivory, from blade to hilt.  It came from Africa and has beautiful carvings of animals, like giraffes and gazelle, on the handle.”

“A weapon of opportunity.  Found, by chance at the crime scene.  What does it say about a killer who can’t be sure he’ll have something to kill with?”  Baelish mused as he looked intensely into her eyes, searching for the answer. He realised there was a silence; perhaps she was uncomfortable with the way he was looking at her?  Or maybe, just maybe, she was embracing this look.

“Apparently it has been in the Lannister family for many generations – it is very precious to the Duke – he insists it never leaves the desk.  So, I suppose it is hard to say whether it was driven by a sudden passion or whether it was calculated,” she whispered.

Petyr suddenly inhaled deeply and looked away.  He took a definite step back, tossed back the remainder of the amber liquid and then collected his jacket.

“Thank you, that was very helpful,” he called back as he strode to the door.  He then stopped and turned, “My men are searching all the rooms and they will need to do yours. Standard procedure, I assure you; and you can observe them.  Goodnight, Lady Stark.”

With that he flew out of the house with a stride that had an air of both urgency and serenity about it.

*****

Sansa was left in astonishment as she leaned against the desk, glass still in hand.  It was as if he had taken all the air in the room with him as he left.

Had she caused him offence in some way? And why did he keep calling her Lady? Maybe her attempts to redirect his attention away from her had angered him?  Or was it the faux confidence?  Although it had stopped being faux quite quickly; he had brought out a feeling of self-assurance in her.  Maybe it was his stormy eyes or the gentle touch, but it had felt like he was taking in everything she had to offer.

Maybe she was mistaken.

*****

Petyr slammed the door of his car as he sat inside.  He was still disturbed by his own inexplicable behaviour.

He held his notebook up to some light which was pouring out of a bedroom window and saw what he had written in the last interview, at least what he had managed before he had abandoned all senses to be closer to her.  The words were meaningless.  A barely legible scrawl of random phrases that had only served as an excuse to look away from Sansa.  She was beautiful, yes, just like her mother.  Better even.  And that satin dress, which clung to the outline of each limb and curve as she sat, had been painfully distracting.  But that wasn’t what had got to him and allowed her to take charge.

Every sentence she had spoken was punctuated by a multitude of expressions that told a story of a woman in pain.  The way she spoke of her extended family, the Lannisters, even working out the weapon – this was a woman who had experienced so much, but not much of what was good in the world; she was lonely but never left alone; she was trusting but had no one to trust.  Still he found it impossible to pity her because she never seemed defeated.  He was bewitched by her fortitude.

Petyr jolted due to a sudden rap on his window. He opened the door when he saw it was Lothor.

“Brune, what are you doing here?  I thought I said to go home?”

“You did, Sir, but you know how this goes.  I have to supervise the men while they search the house and we had to wait a long time for you to finish up with Sansa Stark before we could ask to search her room.”

“Sorry, she had some interesting things to say,” he frowned defensively, “It seems we were right, there was a letter opener in the study.  Entirely made of ivory.  And very old, which may all mean it is the blunted blade we are looking for.”

“I thought you said not to ask them about the weapon?  In case in spooks them?”

“I did.  But she suggested it herself.”

“Very clever,” Brune said, looking impressed.

“Mm, and possibly, very guilty.”

“Why would a murderer direct us to their own weapon?”

“For the several reasons that you are aware of, Brune.  To appear helpful.  Because she may have planted it on someone, or plans to.”

“She doesn’t seem –”

“Suspect everyone, Brune.  That is the rule.”

“I thought it was innocent until proven guilty?” Brune smiled.

“Leave that for the courts. _We_ are the police and have to consider everyone, even her.  Goodnight Brune.”  And with that, he closed his door and drove off down the long country road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment!
> 
> I've also been asked for a floor plan, which I'm happy to do, except my scanner isn't working at the moment... I don't have any nice software to do it on the computer either (without it looking clumsy) so hopefully I'll get the scanner working and it'll be up for the next update :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,  
> I've been battling with this chapter for a bit because I want to keep the murder investigation moving forward whilst also building on relationships between characters. Hopefully it's still ok!

Petyr fell back into the bed at the local Bed and Breakfast but found no peace in his mind to sleep even though he was deadly tired.  It may have been the case, the discomfort of his lumpy mattress or the sickly green colour they had chosen for the walls, but he only seemed to be thinking about one thing: motive. Well, two things.  Motive and Sansa Stark, but he pushed the latter to the back for now.

His eyes closed.

Why would someone kill Jon Arryn? His wealth could only be touched by his wife and son.  No, it was his work, the secrets he knew.  Which secret?  All the damaging secrets he could think of only offended people who had solid alibis at the time of the murder.  Tywin. Jamie. Cersei. Tyrion. Possibly Joffrey.  He was missing something.  Jon was flopped on the marble table.  An _empty_ table.   There should have been a letter but it was clear except for his open pen.  What had he been writing?  Where were the letters now?  Someone must have them, there was no fire in which to burn them.

Fire. Fiery hair. 

His higher conscious which was trying to unpick the mystery gave way, in fatigue, to his subconscious and suddenly he was seeing her hair tumbling down her back.  Hearing Sansa’s whispers again.  Their secret musings. Feeling her whispers again with her gentle breath on the side of his face, making the small hairs on his body prickle in anticipation.  He wanted to smell her, feel her, taste her.  He _wanted_ her.

He stirred in his pants at the thought and it made his eyes drift open enough to realise the disappointing reality: he was alone.  He groaned, half in arousal and the other half in frustration.  He was used to his cruel mind tricking others, but not himself.  He rubbed his eyes, shifted to his side and let sleep take him.

*****

When he woke, he quickly bathed, changed and went to the local police station.  Except for the two overnight attendants, he was the first one in at 7am, and one of the men directed him to an office.

He removed his hat, lit a cigarette and puffed away as he looked through the small box of files that was placed in the middle of the desk.  He rolled his eyes at the amateur attempt but he told himself to appreciate the effort. Supposedly this was all they could find on the Lannisters: extensive and otherwise useless service records for Jamie and Tywin, and single sheets of paper with the most basic details for Tyrion, Cersei and the children.  Perhaps it was not unusual for the file to be so clean for most families, but Petyr knew the Lannisters.  They had associations with dubious characters, families like the Freys with whom they had forged a close friendship with during the war, and the odd underground freelancer that went by silly names like ‘The Mountain.’ Yet, as he expected, none of these associations showed up on the police file.  Tywin had done what any clued up man with money would do and wiped it all. He had done what Petyr did, for himself and for others who paid the right price.

Whatever information Arryn had got his hands on was not here, and so Petyr had a choice.   Would he go back to Casterly Rock Manor and oversee the search of the grounds, or should he drive up to Eyrie Hall, face the Marchioness and search Arryn’s office?  Was he to meet with the revered Lady Sansa or the dreaded Lady Lysa?

*****

After checking the pins in her chignon and putting on her simple mourning dress, Sansa joined the household in the buttery.  Breakfast was usually a sordid affair.  They say ‘misery loves company’ but that wasn’t the case in this house, and she felt they had little reason to be miserable.

“Why am I wearing black, Mother?” Joffrey entered dressed in full mourning attire rather than the lighter coloured day suits he would otherwise wear.  He took his seat opposite Tywin at the head of the table, and joined Cersei, Sansa, Jamie, Lancel and Tommen.

Cersei looked up from her teacup with a gentle smile at him, “Because it is what is expected, my darling.” 

“But it’s so hot,” he grimaced, lighting a cigarette and waiving some servants around to get his tea and bread ready, “and _I_ didn’t care for him.”

Tywin meaningfully put down his newspaper, causing everyone to halt with dread.

“A man is dead, Joffrey. A Marquis.  A head of a great family murdered within our walls. It is important that we appear to show some respect or people will talk of our family’s involvement – sully the Lannister name.  Whether you care for _him_ is irrelevant.”  It was a speech delivered with a thunderous voice but calm demeanour. 

Joffrey rolled his eyes.  “It’s still not _my_ name.”

“I should not have to tell you the value of the Lannister name, what it has and will do for you.  Without it you would only have your two parasitic uncles.  ‘Baratheon’ can only take you so far.”  He got up and eyed the table for a moment, before tucking the newspaper under his arm and leaving without another word.

Most were not perturbed by the outburst, it was quite common in fact, but Sansa sensed a shift from Cersei and Lancel.  She understood Lancel’s reaction, of course, he only came for short visits each time and maybe this was unusual to him, but she wondered what Cersei had to be so nervous about.

Sansa went back to sipping her tea in silence, feigning interest in one of Cersei’s fashion magazines.  It was best to fade into the background at moments like this.  So while her eyes were looking at pictures of quite garish beaded dresses, her real thoughts were on the case: trying to remember anything she had missed in the events leading up to the murder, and trying to decode her discussion with the inspector.

Lord Tyrion entered just as Tywin left, clearly having heard all that had transpired through the halls.

“I see I missed all the drama,” he said, perching on a seat.

Cersei rolled her eyes, “No doubt you’ll bring more.”  It was met by a disappointed glare from Jamie.

“Uncle,” Joffrey called, “we were just discussing why we all have to be in mourning today.  Black is such a dreary colour and _we_ are not his family.”

“Black _is_ rather draining on the Lannister complexion but propriety dictates that we must,” Tyrion said casually as he sipped his coffee.  Joffrey didn’t take notice of this because his uncle was not helping the game he wanted to play.

“Of course, he was _your_ uncle was he not, Sansa?” Joffrey asked coolly while he glanced at his fingernails. The air suddenly felt heavy with expectation.

She swallowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Through your nut of an aunt.” He sneered and waited for a reaction, but she did not have one.  Cersei, however, sniggered into her tea cup. “It seems every one of your family members is dying.  I wonder what that says about you. Are you a poisoned chalice? Do you like wearing black?”

“I do not like mourning, Your Grace, and I do not think the colour suits me.”  Her voice took the tone of a girl and she stuck to the blandest of sentences.  Play the man across from you, not the hand you are dealt.

“That’s not what I asked…” He glared.

“Perhaps it is a testament to her survival instincts?” Tyrion added, smiling.  He saw what she did, how she negated Joffrey.

“It was pure luck that she survived those hooligans in the North –”

Joffrey’s torment was cut off by the entrance of Lady Margaery and Loras, for whom all the men had to stand to greet.  Margaery excused herself for turning out in a lilac dress, but no one could blame her – she had expected for this to be her wedding weekend.

“I will make sure to acquire a black dress for the funeral,” she promised.  Margaery was a tactfully extinguishing the tension she had sensed in the air when she entered.

Cersei rolled her eyes a little and saw the excuse to leave. “Speaking of which, I must excuse myself and write our letter of condolence to Lady Arryn,” she explained as she got up. 

Tyrion chuckled. “Oh yes, how do you write such a letter? Dear Lady Lysa,” his voice became rambunctious and theatrical, “We never did like your husband, we never treated him well, and now he has been murdered under our roof.  Sorry about that.”  He beamed sarcastically at his sister as she left with an exasperated huff.

Sansa heard cars pull onto the gravel and her heart fluttered inexplicably for a moment at the thought of it being the police.

"Your Grace, My Lords. Sergeant Brune is here to conduct a search of the grounds,” announced the butler, Barristan.

Sansa felt a small wash of disappointment, although let nothing show in her composure as she lit a cigarette and excused herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so no Petyr and Sansa but there were some plot points to get in!  
> Quote: "In poker you never play your hand...you play the man across from you" - James Bond (Casino Royale)
> 
>  
> 
> Please feel free to comment and tell me if this is still going along okay :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter after a little bit of a break. I've been having issues juggling the need for a plot against the growth in relationship between Sansa and Petyr. It still early days for them, so I guess they can't always be around each other.
> 
> This has a bit of Lysa and is another plot heavy chapter that drops some quite unsubtle (but some other more subtle) hints.
> 
> Hope it's not too tedious! x

As Petyr Baelish tore through the lush English countryside of the Vale he planned his strategy for avoiding Lysa Arryn.  Lady Sansa had used the correct phrase, she had a ‘delicate constitution’ that sent the poor woman hurtling between elation and hysteria.  It so happened that Petyr had a particular effect on Lysa that usually sent her hurtling towards him in a most unwanted fashion.  This visit had to happen, though.  He had to search through Arryn’s home office since his briefcase had gleaned no further information and he was not sure whether Brune knew what to look for.  He also did not want to give up the chance to get his hands on any information that may be useful to him in the future.

At Eyrie Hall, he parked alongside a produce van hoping to hide his car.  He then made his way to the service entrance of the house.  This was why he enjoyed his many roles – he could choose when to be common and when to be Lordly as it suited him.

 A meek maid opened the door and her eyes instantly sparked with recognition of the fine-looking man.

“Lord Baelish, you should use –”

“No, no my dear.  I am using this entrance for a very good reason.”  He held up his police badge to show her, “I’m here to search Lord Arryn’s office, this is strictly police business.  I don’t think we should distress the Lady at a time like this.”

“The Lady is very fond of you, I am sure you will lift her spirits.”  He rolled his eyes when the maid’s back was turned to him and cursed the imbecile in his mind.

 “What is your name, my dear?”  His eyes quickly weighed up the woman, determining how to tackle her.

 “Mary, My Lord.”

 “Mary,” he said with a kindly (but insincere) smile at her gaunt face, “Lord Arryn has been taken from us in the most horrific way.  Master Robin and Lady Arryn will need time to adjust.  Grieve.  I will bring my good wishes to the funeral in a few days’ time but I ask that you leave a mother to attend to her son.  I only wish to conduct some standard checks.”  He had chosen to drop his composure for an instant so his desperation came through, even if the desperation came from a place far less kind than he was portraying.

 As he stood back and looked at the maid’s face, he saw that he had finally got through to her with this small expression of friendliness.  She nodded and fetched the housekeeper to show him to the office.  As a fairly regular visitor of Lord Arryn’s and a particular favourite of Lady Arryn’s, Petyr was allowed to search the office alone.

*****

Arryn’s office was a stark contrast to the rest of the house, probably because it was the only place over which Lysa had no influence.  The bright and clashing colours, the clutter of antiques and flouncy fabrics were all left at the door, and Petyr easily navigated the simple study of the late Marquis.

 Files were easily found of which some were mildly interesting and others were downright dull, but the good ones were bound to be in the safe – a combination locked safe.  He was out of practice when it came to safe cracking, and this was a new four-dial model. He knew Lysa’s birthday, but it was not that (it was probably smartest not to allow her access to sensitive information).  He was going to have to do it by touch.  He placed his ear near the dial and turned slowly until he heard a release. Click. 8.  He continued on until it was just the last number that he was failing to find.

“Petyr!”  He heard a distant, hoarse cry for his name and he instantly flinched. “Petyr!” It wasn’t imagined.

His heart fell and idea of having to deal with the Marchioness.  He was not concerned about her seeing him crack the safe as she was likely to protect him regardless; he was more concerned with the thought of having her over familiar hands all over him.  He wanted to leave as soon as possible. Click. 7. He exhaled and desperately opened the safe, emptying the contents onto the table and shoving some of the innocuous files inside before locking it again.  For a desperate and juvenile moment he even considered hiding from her in the office but decided against.

“Oh, Petyr!” She had found him. Lysa threw herself at him, forcing him to brace against the bookshelf behind him.  Her face instantly tried to push into the crook of his neck but he was quick to squirm away and push her out.

“Lysa.  How are you?” He asked sternly but with a well delivered tone of concern. He took her firmly by the upper arms and held her at almost arm’s length to maintain a clear distance between them.  His eyes were drawn to the ridiculousness of her dress, black and full of bows, places where they served no purpose or aesthetic value.

“Oh, it’s been awful.  Awful!” She cried, trying to break out of his grasp to hug him again but his grip was unrelenting. “And all these men, these Earls and Counts, buzzing around me already!”

“I’m sure they only mean well.  I am so sorry to be visiting under these circumstances but it is very good to see you,” he cooed, but to anyone other than Lysa his face obviously said otherwise.  He could be a very good actor but why waste the effort when it was not required?

“Jon was an old, sick man.  He was bound to pass soon anyway.”  She said so casually that it surprised Petyr a little.  Lysa did not love her husband but she usually played her part of the dutiful wife. “I’m so glad you came, Petyr, I’ve been feeling so alone.  Robin has been desperate to see you.”

“And how is the boy?” Petyr’s eyes flicked between the files and the door.

“Dreadfully sick.  He is such a delicate one, my Robin.”

“Well, then I should leave you to attend to him, My Lady.  I wish him my best, and to you, my condolences.”

“Would you not like to stay for tea, or dinner?  You can see him, spend time with us.”

At that moment Petyr imagined the several other ways to spend an evening that were far more appealing than fighting off Lysa.  Back alone at his sad bed and breakfast. In a soup kitchen.  In prison waiting to be hanged.  Perhaps the last was a little extreme.

He employed the same tactic as with the maid. “Lysa, you are the sole guardian of the new Marquis of the Vale.  He must stay in good health.  The new heir is a distant relation of your husband and I fear he may not be so kind to you.”

She sighed but seemed to accept it, and she saw him out of the house grasping at his arms and with her usual expression of longing.

As he waved from the window of his car, he could not believe there was a time when he had wanted Jon Arryn dead.  More than wanted, actually – he had planned to marry a widowed Lysa for her money and take control of the estate.  However, things were changing and society was much more willing to accept self-made men into positions of authority and power.  Luckily his investments paid off and it happened that Harrenhall was vested to him before he took such desperate measures as to marry Lysa.

*****

Rifling through the files in his B&B, Petyr found nothing significant that he didn’t already know about.  Roose Bolton’s son was actually a bastard, the Foreign Secretary was having an affair with an Austrian, and the Freys were in severe debt – nothing to surprise him.

Even the majority of Robert Baratheon’s file was not unexpected after what Tywin had said Lord Arryn was doing with regards to the will.  There were several birth certificates of children, Petyr assumed these were the illegitimate children that Robert had wanted to leave some money to.  With most of the records Arryn had managed to find pictures of the child, sometimes with their mother.  As Petyr flicked through he noticed that all the children had dark hair like Robert, even where the mother had the fairest of hair.  It served as a reminder about Joffrey – Arryn and Petyr had already discussed the idea that all of Cersei’s children were likely bastards with fair-headed fathers but Robert had surely accepted it.  Arryn could not have been foolish enough to suddenly take this matter up against Cersei and the Lannisters?  No, there was too little to gain out of it to suddenly take such a risk.  

As he continued to fiddle, he came across a file labelled ‘Stark,’ and this did surprise him. They were practically extinct now so not worth having a file on them, and although Arryn had liked Ned and Catelyn, had neither helped nor aggravated in their disgrace. Why should he have a file on them if the family was of no consequence to him?  In fact, before the treason, they were quite a virtuous family anyway so it was never worth having a file on them.

The contents were just Ned’s service records from the War Office and a few letters that did not really relate.  The first was a letter from Catelyn – dear Cat – in her typically stylish hand.  Dated after Ned’s conviction but before his execution, the letter was a desperate plea addressed to Lysa to employ her husband’s help.  She was convinced of Ned’s innocence, believed the trial to be a sham and sought an appeal.  _What justice is it to have a matter of high treason brought before a makeshift court in the country instead of in London, before the most learned of judges?_ She asked, _I have never seen a jury make such a fast and unanimous decision in the face of such tenuous evidence; and I know this judge unable to afford the fine new clothes and pocket watch he wore.  I can only assume there is generous benefactor had a part to play in the outcome…_ It went on to say that she feared for Sansa as she was being prevented by her fiancé’s family from returning home.  Petyr lamented the thought that it was actually that which saved her.

Cat's letter was crumpled as if someone, undoubtedly Lysa, had screwed it up to throw away before Jon had found it and kept it in the file with the intention to act upon it.  Ever since his time as their family ward in Riverrun, Petyr had remembered Lysa to be incredibly jealous of Cat.  By adulthood, that had manifested into a cruel pettiness that meant denying her sister of everything as a matter of principle, and it had very harsh consequences in this instance. Jon had probably found Cat’s letter too late, Petyr thought, and he was unable to help Ned prove his innocence or save his family.   The second letter, however, was from Tywin Lannister and implied that Arryn had asked both Tywin and Joffrey to allow Sansa to join them in the Vale but the request was denied as, Tywin had written, _her impending nuptials to my grandson should make us her closest family now._

Apart from painting a rather sad picture of the Stark’s demise, Baelish found no use for anything in these files so far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's pretty obvious what the secret Arryn is holding onto is but obviously that isn't the full extent of this story. There are twists, I assure you!
> 
> I also wanted to say that I have uploaded some floor plans: one of the crime scene (chap. 3) and one of the ground floor of the house (chap. 2). They are very simple but thought they would just help you see what I'm imagining, although I don't want to force your imaginations too much to match mine because that's what reading is about!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all,  
> So I thought I should just upload these two chapters on one day because I've been struggling with trying to properly arrange chapters. I'm not happy with them both but I think I should stop fussing and just get on with it!
> 
> Some Joffrey and Sansa history. He's a nasty piece of work, as we all know.
> 
> Happy reading x

Sansa had been forced to write letters to the wedding guests explaining the cancellation and so that afternoon she was sat with Cersei and Myrcella in the Yellow Room.  It was a favourite for afternoon tea in summer for its dual-aspect and the wall of sliding French doors that could be opened fully onto the terrace.  It felt like an extension of the outside without having to be in the beating sun. 

It seemed ‘helping’ to write letters involved Sansa writing all the letters, while Cersei reclined on the chaise longue and waved a fan over herself.  The Dowager Duchess had some disagreement with her cousin that rendered her too furious to write.  Myrcella elegantly tinkled on the wall piano to fill the awkward silence that normally fell upon people who had little interest in each other’s company.

The front door was heard opening and closing, and Barristan entered their room soon after.

“Lord Baelish, Your Grace.”

Myrcella stopped her music and Sansa subconsciously straightened her posture at the table.

He strode in slowly, hat in hand.  “Your Grace, My Lady, Miss Stark,” His husky voice washed over Sansa as he bowed his head gently and addressed the ladies.  “I was just hoping to take a look around your grounds.”  The way the sun caught his face really did make him look handsome. Her skin prickled when he momentarily caught her looking at him and and she hoped she was stifling her blush.

“We already had an army of policemen search the garden and fields for several hours,” Cersei replied with a smile, but it was cold and her words were laced with discontent.

“I apologise, Your Grace, for the inconvenience,” he said it with a most unapologetic face, “But I had urgent business to attend to in London.  I was still rather keen to see the house by day.”

“Yes…  Of course, your club.” Cersei stated, in disdain.

“Amongst other affairs, yes, Your Grace.” His mouth pulled into a smirk.  He obviously found the Dowager Duchess’ taunts amusing, probably because they failed to offend and actually fed his pride.  Sansa couldn’t help notice his eyes flit to her every now and then during the conversation, each time she felt more and more disarmed, entranced by those stormy green eyes.

“We are writing letters to explain the cancellation,” Cersei said, and Petyr’s smirk grew.

“I see _you_ are,” He was sarcastic and Cersei did not notice, leaving Sansa to try and suppress a grin. His eyes were now focused completely on her, trailing up her body and settling his gaze on her eyes.  He was drinking up every part of her.  Sansa flicked her eyes to Cersei and Myrcella, neither showing particular interest in what was happening before them.

“People are so nosy,” Cersei continued, “I fear their speculation may lead everyone to believe the Tyrells called off the engagement.  We can’t have them thinking it was _another_ embarrassment.”  At that moment Baelish’s attention darted back to Cersei and Sansa saw glare turn severe. 

“No, we can’t have that,” he said coldly.  “Now, I should leave you all to your correspondences.”  He gave one last smirk to Sansa before he took his leave through the French doors to the terrace, wafting a scent of mint and cologne as he went.  She could not help admire his elegance.

*****

Petyr walked round the side of the house, while studying the perimeter from top bottom.  It was frustrating to think Lord Arryn’s letters and the ivory murder weapon were probably in the house and he could not find them.  From experience and his own residences, he knew that these large houses had countless hiding places and it was usually only people who had lived there since childhood – those who played games and hid things from their parents – who would know where to look.  A police sweep would only brush the surface however hard they tried.

He came around the South Wing and looked at the rear-side of the house as a whole.  It was magnificent, and he had never realised since he had only ever seen it by night.  He could see a glint of auburn in the distance.  It could only be her.  She looked magnificent in every light, under moonlight and in the glory of the sun.  She was like a piece of art sitting in that room and writing in the corner, the light flooding in through both walls of windows.  Her hair was ablaze and her eyes were oceans swirling with… something.  He desperately wanted to know what that was.

He had wanted to close the divide between them in the Yellow Room, but he liked watching her work: her body language, the way she checked Myrcella and Cersei, her deliberate silence.  She was acutely aware; on the lookout for threats.  While it was sad that she seemed to lead a life where she felt under constant threat, it was a useful skill.  He could do so much with her.

*****

Sansa lit a cigarette on the terrace and overlooked the garden as she often did.  She had managed to excuse herself from letter writing and hoped to run into the inspector as he perused the grounds.

He had been a distracting presence all afternoon and in many ways.  He had paced past the windows of the Yellow Room three of four times, pausing to look round the corner and up the wall of the house.  Sansa had involuntarily looked at him out of the corner of her eye each time and once she was sure he smirked at gaining her attention, that same mischievous smirk he always gave.  The one that made her stomach flutter. Cersei had found it less amusing.  She opened her eyes each time his delicate clicking heels came by, and the final time she huffed and rolled her eyes.

“Can we help you, Inspector?  I can have a servant show you around.” She had said in a most irritable fashion.

“I don’t wish to disturb anyone, Your Grace,” he had replied innocently, his eyes never leaving the wall he was studying, but Sansa had seen the subtle grin play across his face.  His eyes caught hers one last time before he had disappeared round the house again.

Right now, Sansa exhaled a large plume of smoke on the terrace as she listened to Myrcella, still playing the piano.  She heard footsteps behind her that cut through the music and she turned around in anticipation before freezing.

Joffrey.  He had abandoned the jacket of his mourning attire and just had his waistcoat over his shirt, hands tucked into his trouser pockets.

“You shouldn’t smoke so much Sansa,” he declared as he walked towards her, leering. “They say it causes cancer,” and he stroked the side fringe that framed her face and tucked behind her ear. She had flinched ever so slightly to his movement, possibly expecting something more hostile.  It would come, no doubt.

He reached for her cigarette that was held between her fingers, the fingers of the hand she was using to steady herself against the stone barrier. 

“You look very pretty today, Sansa.”  He took a drag and then sneered while looking in her eyes, “You were wrong this morning, black suits you very well.” In truth, she had put more effort into the way she looked that morning but it was not for Joffrey’s attentions. 

He stepped closer to her so their faces were only a few inches apart.  It was like she had been with Petyr Baelish last night but this time it made her stomach turn. His eyes were green too, a very dazzling green which had, at one point, made her think he was one of the most beautiful boys she had ever met.  Now these green eyes were detestable to her.

“You have nothing to say?  I just complimented you.” He gave an expectant look.

Sansa felt her jaw tighten. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He smiled again and nodded with satisfaction, took another drag and then exhaled the plume of smoke in her face.  She did not flinch.

“Do you remember this song?” He asked, and he clasped a hand at the base of her neck where it met her shoulder, starting to run his thumb along her collar bone.  He held the cigarette in the same hand so the burning tip was just inches from her face.  She listened to what was being played: the famous Debussy piece that evoked tranquillity in most people.  For her, however, it caused fear and she did not move.  But she was ready to.

*****

_**Past:** early-1937_

_The group retired from the dining room to the living room, having finished their meal.  Jamie and Tyrion were abroad, and Tywin had excused himself to the study for urgent business soon after the meal so it left Cersei, her children and Sansa for post-dinner entertainment with some of the Freys._

_Sansa was being lead in a daze, Myrcella’s arm looped with hers as she took her to a sofa and sat beside her.  Her world had been turned upside down.  The people of her homeland in the North were not who she thought they were and she was losing faith in her instincts.  Maybe it was a caring gesture from Myrcella, or maybe she was knowingly leading her to be tortured._

_“Myrcella, why don’t you play for our guests?” Cersei called, and Myrcella turned to look at Sansa as if to check if she was alright.  She was too numb to engage with her but it made her feel relieved that this girl had kindness within her.  Then she was gone and replaced with Joffrey._

_He guffawed loudly as Walder Frey, his new (and disturbingly young) wife, and a few of his sons sat on the sofas near them._

_“They say they found the youngest first, he was playing with his dog outside and they beat him before he ran in limping to his mother!” Joffrey laughed, again, “They finally found her in the cellar with the two youngest, shielding her brats with nothing but her body.  Stupid bitch clearly doesn’t know how a gun works.”  Joffrey roared with laughter and Sansa felt the tears welling deep inside.  It was too painful to hear, she felt her stomach clenching and could not breathe._

_Joffrey waved Sandor, the footman, over with a small chest of cigars.  The guests indulged, lit them and then they carried on._

_“When I heard Ned Stark, the ‘honourable Ned Stark,’ was to be hanged for treason I thought that was the best news I had heard in years,” Walder jeered, “but to have the family wiped out!”_

_“The best was Robb Stark: stabbed in the stomach and left to watch his dear sister be beaten to death,” added Stevron.  Sansa tightened her jaw as the tears rose higher._

_“She was a feisty one, I heard.  Took a couple of good ones to keep her down,” Lothor Frey cried in a fit of laughter.  That was the point at which her tears spilled over, but she remained silent.  She had learnt to cry silently._

_“Not all the Starks are gone,” corrected Joffrey with an imperious gesture to the room.  He draped an arm around Sansa with her tear streaked face and she flinched at his touch.  He grinned at his audience, “We have the last one here.  Isn’t she a beauty?  Too beautiful for a traitor, I feel we should change that.”_

_Myrcella stopped playing and leapt over to the crowd.  “Joffrey, stop!”_

_It made everyone, including Sansa in her anguish, look up in shock._

_He scoffed loudly, “My little sister, Ladies and Gentlemen,” he sneered, as if announcing an act in his hideously cruel show.  He was met by a few chuckles as he got up but Cersei’s eyes flickered with fear.  She dreaded the thought of him unleashing his anger on Myrcella, but she composed herself and attempted to divert his attentions._

_“Tommen, take your sister upstairs.  I fear she is tired.” Cersei instructed cautiously._

_“Should I take Lady Sansa as well?” Tommen asked coldly.  He was timid but that was only because he knew what it meant to be overpowered by Joffrey._

_“No. Just your sister, please.” Her eyes flickered to her eldest child who was clearly further enraged by his brother’s question._

_They left and Joffrey sat beside Sansa, once again putting his arm around her and picking up his cigar from the crystal ash tray.  Cersei walked over to the gramophone and started playing a record, Clair de Lune by Debussy.  The room had fallen silent except for the calming music, the irony of it against the tension._

_“Where were we? Ah, yes, beautiful traitors and how to fix it.” He began stroking her collar bone with the hand that held the cigar, just where the neckline of her silvery-blue satin dress began.  He twirled the cigar round in his hand, as if poised to sear her skin.  “I don’t want to do too much damage though, I like you pretty.  And I may find a use for you even if Mother says I can’t marry you.”_

_Sansa was craning her neck away from him; they felt like the only ones in the room and the music was the only sound in her head when he brought the cigar down.  It was not until she felt the pressure without the immediate burn, that she realised he had singed her dress and not her skin.  But she began to feel the heat come through and she suddenly sobbed loudly, pushed him away with force so he fell onto the coffee table, and ran out.  He got up to chase her but Cersei got in the way.  As Sansa ran up the stairs sobbing and her breath quivering with fear, she heard Tywin come out and ask what was going on._

_*****_

He had not given her any attention since his engagement to Margaery but Joffrey wanted to pick up his game from this morning.  He continued to caress her skin with his thumb, the music in the background rang clear and it all felt too familiar.  Maybe he would go for skin this time.  She felt her arms begin to tense, ready for battle. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat startled them and they both quickly turned to the source of it, Joffrey stepping back and retracting his hand.

“Inspector, I didn’t know you were here,” Joffrey remarked and he puffed the cigarette that had been lingering so close to Sansa’s face just moments before

“Your Grace,” his words like ice, jaw tense.  “I was just taking a look at the grounds, making sure we haven’t missed anything.  They are quite extensive.”

“One of the servants can show you around.” He said uncaringly.

“I don’t wish to bother your staff.  They will be preparing for dinner and besides, I doubt the servants have time to explore the gardens at their leisure.” There was a pause and then, “But I hope I will not be imposing if I were to ask Miss Stark to show me around.”  His eyes darted briefly to Sansa.

Joffrey scoffed and looked Baelish top-to-toe and back again, weighing him up. How foolish the boy was to dismiss the man’s threat with such a shallow inspection.

“Of course not. But be careful, she bites.”  He sniggered a little and then went off through the living room leaving Baelish and Sansa on the terrace. 

*****

Petyr took a few steps towards her but remained a respectful distance apart.  He would do it for propriety’s sake, of course, but right now he could see she was not ready to have another person around her. She was in her fortress, cold steel and avoiding eye contact. 

He offered her a cigarette from his case.  She looked at him warily, possibly judging the worn cigarette case from his army days, but took a cigarette anyway with shaking hands.  She did not thaw until he took out his black and gold lighter for her cigarette, at which point she finally peered into his eyes and gave him the smallest of smiles.  He lit his own cigarette and gestured for her to lead him down the stone steps to the garden.

* * *

Clair De Lune by Debussy - I'm sure you've heard it and, despite using it for a bad setting, it's one of my favourite classical pieces.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, I have been struggling with arranging the delivery of certain bits of information so I hope you don't lose faith in me based on the last two chapters!
> 
> UPDATE: I'm nagging, I know, but I put floor plans up of the crime scene (chap.3) and the ground floor (chap. 2) if you want to see how things are set out. Please let me know if you're having problems seeing them, I didn't realise you couldn't upload them straight away and you needed to get a URL...


	11. The Living Sculptures of Casterly Rock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! I promise it'll pick up the pace after this chapter but I wanted to set the characters and relationships properly.  
> Now. There is random prattle in this chapter but go with it... 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

They strolled in silence along the garden path, through the sections marked by perfectly trimmed hedges that came up to their knees.  Some of these sections burst with an array of coloured roses, others were swept with lavender and jasmine, and at the centre of each section was a sculpture.  Petyr naturally found himself staying a step behind Sansa to give her space, to watch her and to learn her. The garden really did do wonders in relaxing the young woman.

“Is there a particular part of the garden you need to see, Inspector?”  She finally asked as they made their way further from the glare of the house.

“Oh…  No.  Sergeant Brune didn’t find anything of importance on the grounds.  I never really thought there would be anyway...”

She smiled widely, a genuine smile, and turned to look at him.  “Then why are we here?” She asked, breathing a laugh.

An odd question to ask, he thought, since she had been in a bad position with Joffrey just moments earlier.  Maybe she didn't feel like she needed saving?  Or maybe she had stopped expecting it from these people.

“Because you said the garden was beautiful and I wanted to see.” He smirked in her direction and was unexpectedly caught by her eyes which shone a surreal violet colour as the sunset pink hit her azure.

****

“And are they?” She asked after a pause. She had fallen into the depths of his dark eyes.

“Oh yes, they are breath-taking,” he said softly, looking at her in a way that made the comment far more significant than it sounded.  He quite quickly broke eye contact to look at the ground that passed below them and it made him seem unusually vulnerable.  In the little time she had known him she had never thought he was the kind to show vulnerability, and she thought she had to remember it.

After a while he continued, “Lady Sansa, is there something I should know about the young Duke?  If there is, you should tell me.”

It was a rude awakening from her thoughts, to be reminded of Joffrey.  She came to a stop and crossed her arms, the last of her cigarette still burning.

“It is nothing of consequence.” She said abruptly.

“I only mean –”

“The last time you saw me I was engaged to him, and now I am not.  I think that says enough for our relations.” She stated coolly, “But if you’re asking me for my judgement – I don’t believe Joffrey killed the Marquis.  He isn’t capable of orchestrating such a plan.  He would brag about it.  And the method was too merciful for him.” She dropped her cigarette and stamped it out with vexed concentration.

Without warning, Petyr had taken her hand, making her stop her assault on the ground.  He studied it closely and clasped his other hand over it in an unusually chivalrous gesture.  All she could do was watch his face, wide eyed and slightly parted lips, trying to catch anything in his expression that would explain him to her.

Last night, an academic discussion of weapons had found them with their arms whispering against each other, their faces close enough to smell the liquor on each other breaths.  Then he was suddenly barking orders to search her room and it seemed almost as if he was accusing her right there and then.  Today he had toyed with her, saved her, soothed her and riled her up again.  What was he doing now? What state would he leave her in tonight?

Despite herself, despite the confusion, she felt a fire kindling in her stomach.

Baelish exhaled deeply and then began with his soft rasping voice, “I know he didn’t kill Arryn.  Joffrey is wicked enough, but it wasn’t him.  I won’t pretend that this situation that you are in is easy, but…one should never be alone with their thoughts.”

She frowned in question. “You think they are worth being heard?” They were standing very close to each other and the summer air – hot with a trace of sand, jasmine and rose – was so still that it didn’t need to be anything louder than her whisper.

He raised an eyebrow, as if surprised she would ask. “You helped me with the weapon, didn’t you?  I think you see more than anyone realises.”

“Except you.”

A knowing smirk, “Except me.”

Her breath hitched, she didn’t know why exactly.

She suddenly saw a distant figure flutter past a window in the house.  It wasn’t threatening but it was enough to remind her where she was.  He seemed to realise as well as he dropped her hand in an instant.

That was the Lannisters: dictating every move without needing to be present; ending her moments before they even began. Ruling by fear. 

She defiantly guided him to the edge of the garden where they would be partially shielded by high hedges and lead him further down towards a conglomeration of sculptures. He peered towards her every now and then, not in confusion but out of patience, as if he was waiting to see what she did next. 

“This is my favourite,” Sansa finally said as she brought them both to stand by a sculpture of couple, naked but preserving each other’s modesty in a loose embrace.

All the stone sculptures were weathered with crumbling faces and decaying pedestals; many of the innocent figures of children and scholarly men beginning to look like monsters over time.  This bronze sculpture before them was the only one that was intact, a Rodin sculpture that had been commissioned by Joanna Lannister, the Duke’s wife.

She explained, “Her face is tilted with that slightly exasperated look, and his face is as if he is mocking her for overreacting.  They’re fighting...but it’s intimate.”  She then inhaled deeply and started walking around the sculpture.  Petyr followed her with curiosity as she continued to speak, “But if you look from this angle, you can’t see the expression on her face anymore – she seems to just be tilting her head – and their faces appear to touch in a kiss.  A kiss he’s enjoying.”

Petyr looked from the sculpture to Sansa, with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Perspective is everything. It’s not just what you look at, it’s how to see it.”

She smiled but a slight look of disappointment played across her face.

He raised an eyebrow to challenge her, “Did I just fail some test I didn’t know about?”

“No,” she smiled, “I just realised how silly and… small my interpretation was.”

“And what was your interpretation of it?” He smirked and stepped closer to her.

“The two sides of a relationship: with passionate affection there will inevitably be passionate disagreement”

“Why is that silly?  It’s true.”

“It’s not nearly as profound.”

“We don’t all need to think the same way.  In my field we rely on people thinking differently, it can inspire us to see something we didn’t see before.”

When she cocked her head to the side she was almost jealous to see he was looking at the sculpture, but at least it gave her a moment to appreciate his fine features, flushed with a mauve glow under the dying sun. He was handsome, in his own way.  In many ways, actually, but he was very different to the Adonis-type fellow she was expected to want at her age.  His charisma and clever eyes had her taken her in a way none of those men did.

The gong in the house luckily tore her eyes away from him before it got awkward.

“I believe that means you need to get ready for dinner.”

“Yes,” she sighed, “Although I doubt they’d really notice if I turn up in this.” She patted the skirts of her day dress a little. “I’m invisible.”

He walked up behind her slowly and when she next heard him it startled her how close his lips were to her ears, how he was courageous enough to let his chest graze her back and run his hand along the length of her arm (the one hidden from the house, mind).

“Don’t underestimate what it means to be invisible.  You can see everything from the shadows but people rarely see things when they’re under a spotlight,” He breathed in her ear.  She hoped he didn’t see her close her eyes to bathe in his voice.

She suddenly felt him disappear into the air, and he was already quite a way back to the house.  He liked dramatic exits, she surmised, and breathed deeply.

*****

He kept his pace brusque as he made his way back to the house so that he reached long before Sansa.  It wouldn’t do for anyone to think he had any affiliation with her.  'Affiliation' was the right word for he couldn’t put an exact label of what he wanted with her.

“Baelish?”

He whipped around to see Tywin pouring over a newspaper in the living room with pince-nez being propped on his nose.  How a man could look so forbidding when lounging in an armchair was beyond him.

“Your Grace,” he addressed, not betraying the surprise and concern at knowing Sansa would soon follow.  It was exactly what he wanted avoid but he could see the part of the garden in which they were standing couldn’t be seen from here, and not at dusk.

“You’ve been here quite a while.  Are you making any progress?”

“I assure you we won’t be as intrusive from now on, there are basic procedures to follow at the beginning of all cases, including a full search of the property.”

“Whatever you require.  I’m sorry we didn’t know you would be here so late, you could have stayed for dinner.  Why don’t you have a drink?”  He gestured at the sofa adjacent to him, and then threw his newspaper down. “Sandor!”

With the ushering of the footman, Petyr was forced to comply and gingerly took a seat.  A copy of Tywin’s Whiskey Sour was thrust into his hand and he was left to fill an awkward silence.

“I hope the newspapers aren’t treating you too badly,” Petyr began and he sipped his drink.  His jaw tensed at the sharp lemon in the drink.  Whiskey Sours had never been to his taste.

“No, I’ve managed to keep it away from The Times and the local newspapers were expressly told to keep Arryn’s name out of it.”

“I have an acquaintance at the Mirror, if you’d like…”

Tywin tried to wrangle more details out of Petyr.  Nothing to do with the present case, who was suspected or asking about the weapon.  That was too obviously intrusive for him.  But he did refer to many of Petyr’s past cases: how long did they each last?  What happened in the ones where they failed to charge anyone?  A tacit request to be off with the case and to keep his distance.

“Cases are usually looked at intensely for 2 months and then at a reduced level until 6 months has lapsed.  Scotland Yard have little money to conduct such lengthy investigations,” he tried to buy himself some time and mistakenly took a sip of the horrid drink again.  “Arryn’s death, however, is particularly high profile.”

“Indeed, that’s why you’re on it, I presume.  I hear you don’t take many these days.”

Flattery didn’t suit Tywin, it came out sounding like a threat.  Perhaps it was his intention, Petyr wouldn’t know.

“There will be pressure to solve this case, and Lady Arryn could always fund an extension to the investigations.  She _is_ a wealthy woman,” he added pointedly.

He left Tywin in a contemplative silence and it occurred to him that Sansa had not come through the living room.  She had probably taken a different route inside so they were clearly agreed on that point.

Once again, the dinner gong rang to summon everyone downstairs and finally Petyr leapt to his feet.  As he was escorted to the door, Tywin mumbled something about coming to the house for dinner but Petyr was looking past him as the auburn vision made her way down the stairs, draped in silver satin.  She threw a fleeting, clever smile as she swept into the dining room behind a few others.  If _she_ was invisible then he should pity the world.

* * *

Chapter Title Inspiration: The Living Sculptures of Pemberly by Dario Marianelli

<https://youtu.be/_vGEuvmfI9U>

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will all start to make sense soon... Also that sculpture is not something I've seen, although I quite like the idea of it so I'm hoping there's something like it (or maybe if I'm rich and famous I'll commission it myself). I did go to the Rodin museum in Paris recently and I guess that inspiration lasted a bit ;)
> 
> Hope it was okay! Please comment x


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